


Right Hand Man

by Basingstoke



Series: Unfinished WIP clearinghouse [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:30:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Moriarty took a different tack with Sherlock. Sherlock isn't letting him get away with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Hand Man

*

"Your limp is psychosomatic," said the man sitting across from John. 

"Still hurts," John said. 

"But the tremor in your hand is real. And you're left-handed. Afghanistan or Iraq?" 

"Afghanistan," John said. 

"Shot in the left shoulder, that's unlucky. Don't say it could be worse."

John shrugged. 

"I need an assistant," the man said. 

John raised an eyebrow. 

"You're looking for work, you can't afford a decent place on your pension. I have an excellent flat to share and need a right hand."

"Just like that?" 

"Do you need more?" 

"Your name?" 

"Would you know any more if I told you my name?" 

"I might," John said. 

"Sherlock Holmes. Your conclusions?" 

"Oxford or Cambridge?" 

Sherlock smirked. "Neither. I don't even have any A levels." 

"I bet your mum was furious." 

"Frequently."

"John Watson." John started to extend his hand to shake before he recollected himself. "Sorry." 

"Reflex. Don't be self-conscious. And kindly do not offer to shake my foot." 

"I'll read up on my amputee etiquette," John said. 

Sherlock snorted. 

"I won't, then. But don't blame me if I make a Venus de Milo joke."

"If I had as much arm as she has, I wouldn't need you," Sherlock said. "One can do marvelous things with half an arm these days. 221B Baker Street. Tomorrow." He stood gracefully and walked to the door just as a doctor opened it. 

"Sherlock, we're done--" 

The door swung closed behind the armless man. 

"Hm," John said to the thin air. 

*

Of course he showed up. 

Sherlock answered the door wearing his prosthetics. They looked awkward, at odds with his body. "Good morning," John said. 

"I'll show you the flat," Sherlock said. 

"I'd rather you told me what you need my assistance for." 

"Isn't it obvious?" 

"No," John said. "You don't need help dressing, clearly, I can't cook, and you can have anyone in to clean. I can't fetch and carry with my bloody leg the way it is. So why do you need a knackered ex-soldier?" 

Sherlock turned, smiled, and refused to move. John stood two steps below him and waited. "That wasn't bad," Sherlock said. 

"Thank you." 

"That wasn't good, mind, but it's more than most people attempt." 

John waited. 

"Let me show you my work," Sherlock said. He whirled and ran up the rest of the stairs. John followed more slowly. 

He caught up with Sherlock in the cluttered living room, Sherlock sitting on the sofa, a folder on the coffee table in front of him. Sherlock caught his eye, swung his foot out of his black suede slipper, and toed open the file folder. He spread a sheaf of photographs across the table with a flick of his toes, then sat back and waited. 

Corpses. Blue and--hm, interesting--poisoned. John leaned in a little closer and took a good look. They didn't have anything else in common. Different ages, both sexes, different races, different social classes. "If you're saying you're a serial killer, I'd rather you not keep me in suspense," John said. 

"I'm fairly certain you could take me in a fight." 

"But they're all poisoned," John said. 

"What makes you think they're murders?" 

"Well--they're--you have them all in a bunch, but they've nothing in common," John said slowly. "So--the only thing--is someone else." Which didn't make any bloody sense when he said it out loud, and didn't really answer the question, but make Sherlock beam. 

"Perfect," Sherlock said. "Officially, they're suicides. They took the poison themselves, no struggle, no force."

"Those serial suicides?" 

"Yes. I'm a consulting detective. If I'd been in action and not off relearning how to button my shirts, I would have prevented at least one death." 

"You're not police," John said. 

"Consultant, I told you." 

"Police don't see consultants." 

"I'm the only one." 

"Bollocks," John said. 

Sherlock caught the file folder between his two toes and silently closed it. He tapped his long second toe on the label on the cover, which said it was official Met property. Bloody hell. 

John straightened up and exhaled. "Why me?" 

"Your hand has stopped shaking and you're resting your weight on both legs. You came closer and didn't run. You're interested. Don't try to lie." 

"I won't, then. All right, show me the flat." 

Sherlock smiled broadly. 

*

John returned with his two boxes and duffel. Sherlock hovered in the doorway and eyed his things. "Give us--here, carry this, instead of standing around watching," John said, holding up his duffel. 

"I am your employer," Sherlock said, but he ducked and let John sling the duffel over his shoulder for him to carry across his body. 

 

...

 

John carried the post upstairs. There was a large package for Sherlock, looked like medical supply. "Something gruesome for you, Sherlock," John said. 

"The half-cat?"

"Maybe. You won't catch me opening your mail." 

"Coward." Sherlock was wearing a scalpel attached to his left prosthesis, his usual mechanical hand on the right, so he sat on the sofa and sliced right into the package. "This isn't from medical supply. It isn't even labelled." he paused and sat back.

"Christ. Should I call the bomb squad?"

Sherlock bent over and pressed his ear to the package. "I don't think so." He stood up and grabbed the poker from the fireplace with his foot, though. He balanced on one foot and his mechanical hand against the tall armchair while he manipulated the top of the box with the poker. John retreated to the landing with his phone in his hand. 

"Hm," Sherlock said, after there wasn't a bang. John came back upstairs. Sherlock was sitting back down, taking a wooden box out of the brown cardboard package with his feet. He ran his sensitive toes over the sleek finish. "Definitely not a bomb. Something special. Something--" he stopped. 

He paled. "What?" John asked. 

"Please open this for me. Don't touch anything inside," Sherlock said. He scooted over on the sofa and sat in a half lotus, arms akimbo, and pressed his forehead to his tender instep. 

John didn't argue. He opened the simple latches on the box and flipped the lid open without touching anything but the outside, revealing that the box contained bones. 

Arm and hand bones. 

Christ. 

Christ! John reached out to Sherlock but Sherlock jumped up before John could touch him. He flung himself into his desk chair and rolled back and forth, toes clutched on the edge of the desk, utterly ignoring his arms. 

"I'll call Lestrade," John sad. His body was coiled and utterly still, because he had Sherlock's amputated arms in front of him and this was war, a war he hadn't realized he was in. 

"No. My brother." Sherlock picked up his phone and flicked it to John with a flip of his ankle. "And a cup of tea and a cigarette." Sherlock glanced at him, pausing in his fretful movement. "Please." 

John nodded, glad to get away from the naked bones on the table. He turned the kettle on as he dialed. 

Mycroft answered instantly. "Sherlock?"

"It's John Watson."

"What happened?" There was real urgency in his voice. 

"Someone...sent Sherlock his arms back."

Mycroft was silent for a long moment. "I'll be there. Don't let him do anything. Please." 

Two pleases from two Holmeses. "I will."

John slipped the phone into his pocket and dropped two tea bags into clean mugs. He brought the tea over to the desk where Sherlock had already retrieved his cigarettes and holder from their hidey hole. John opened the packet and fit a cigarette into the holder, then lit it after Sherlock had picked up the holder with his toes. "And help me take these sodding arms off," Sherlock growled, very softly. 

*

John woke up as Sherlock came into his room, so he was prepared when Sherlock curled around his torso. He was shirtless, wearing only pyjama bottoms. His mouth pressed to John's hair and his top foot stroked the covers over John's stomach. John pulled his hands out from under the covers and Sherlock flung himself bodily into John's embrace. 

"The worst part is how alone I feel in my body," Sherlock whispered. "Much worse than the inconvenience. I can't feel anything, I'm numb." 

John pinched his side, then rubbed the spot. Sherlock wriggled and pushed his face into John's neck. "Go on," he murmured. 

John scratched Sherlock's back and Sherlock sighed and fell still. 

...


End file.
